“It’s open for the next three weeks, then it’s let. Why?”
I say, “I came to see Ma. I need a place to crash.” Clearly he hadn’t opened my email.
“She okay?” Even with the background noise, I detect concern.
“Yeah. Getting better, they say.”
“We’ll try to call on her when we come through in a couple of weeks.”
“She’s not seeing visitors.” My voice is steady and firm. “Even if she were, seeing Grandma might upset her.”
“That right? Well, use the flat if you want. It’s a mess. Closing got delayed, so things are behind schedule. We’ll be back the week before it’s let.”
“I’ll tidy up.”
“Thanks, love. I’ll call the caretaker so there’ll be a key for you.”
I write down the address and the chores Granda wants me to do while I’m there. After hanging up, I program my GPS and set out to find the place.
It turns out the flat is near Trinity College, in an upscale apartment building. The caretaker, alerted to my arrival, is just finishing dinner. He produces a key, shows me the assigned parking spot, and escorts me to the top floor. The spacious flat smells like fresh paint and new carpet. There’s a patio with a nice view of manicured lawns. New furniture, complete with tags, is in place. Boxes, taped and marked, are stacked in every room. There’s no food in the fridge, which is fine—I have no appetite.
Sitting on a couch facing sliding glass doors leading out to the patio, I rest my hand on the soft fabric and stare into the night sky. My eyes grow heavy, so I curl into a ball and fall asleep.
The next morning I have a kink in my neck and an imprint of the couch’s textured pattern on my face. My stomach grumbles. Grabbing my coat and bag, I set out to explore the area. On St. George’s Street I find a cafe and order a toasted breakfast sandwich and tea. People dart in on their way to work, or to class, or wherever. I finish half the sandwich and wrap the rest to take with me.
My ankle aches from so much walking the past few days, so I elevate it when I get back to the flat and search for jobs on the Internet. There’s not much available that pays any sort of decent wage, but I make a list and plan to go out later.
Organizing the flat is a welcomed distraction. Granda said to start with Grandma’s boxes, labeled according to rooms. In the kitchen, there’s a bucket under the sink, rubber gloves, and household cleaner. I fill the bucket with soapy water, slip on the gloves, and wipe down all the cabinets and surfaces. Then I rip open the boxes marked “Kitchen” and put things away.
I move from room to room, getting things in order. Nothing I unpack looks familiar.
Eventually, there are only two small boxes left. Closed with masking tape, they are marked with Granda’s perfect handwriting: “Business” on one. “Storage” on the other. I lift them. They feel like papers. Stacking the boxes, I carry them down the narrow hall to a small bedroom with a single bed, and a desk, and a window facing another apartment building.
Lifting the boxes overhead, I try to set them on the shelf inside the tiny closet. Despite my height, it’s hard to reach; standing on tiptoe still hurts. I can only stretch my arms. As I try hoisting the boxes onto the shelf, they fall backwards toward my face. I grip the bottom box, but the other one slides onto the floor and smashes open.
Sitting on the floor among the spilled contents, I sweep the papers into a pile. I right the papers—mostly business letters and rental agreements for the cottages—and begin filling the box. There are cancelled checks and insurance policies that I also stack inside.
When I have most of the contents back in the box, I scan the carpet for anything I’ve missed. Unlike the carpet elsewhere in the flat, this carpet is worn and stained. Against the wall, in the corner, is a letter-sized white envelope. I scoot over and grab it.
The envelope is unsealed. I lift the flap and pull out photographs.
The lighting in the top picture is dim. I can’t tell if it’s day or night. Ma is sitting on the bed. It’s neatly made. Behind her, there’s the same painting that hangs in all the upstairs bedrooms at the B&B: the Virgin Mary smiling down at the infant Jesus.
Ma looks like she did in the yearbook, with the same hair. Flat. Like her eyes.
I gasp.
Ma’s blouse is unbuttoned to her navel, revealing her bra. Her thin lips are puckered unnaturally. Her eyes stare ahead, like those of a trapped animal.
My breath locks inside my chest. Taken on a Polaroid camera, the picture sticks to my hand. Numbly, I turn to the next one.
It’s the same room. The bedside table lamp is on. The duvet is folded back. Neat. Tidy. Ma’s face is turned away. Her eyes are closed. She is lying bare-chested on the bed with her hands behind her back.
My cell phone rings in the next room. I sink down onto the carpet. It smells like cat urine. My stomach knots. The walls, the color of dirty water, have holes where pictures once hung. I lean against the wall, holding the photographs and staring out the window at the neighboring brick building. Everything blurs. The phone stops ringing. The only sound is my own shallow breathing.
I force myself to look at the next photograph. The lampshade is askew. The pillows and bedding lie on the floor. Alone on the bed is Ma. She’s naked. Her face is as contorted as her body. Her eyes are wide but empty.
A vile taste rises in my mouth. I try choking it back, but can’t. The vomit spews across the floor. Hunched over, I heave until there’s nothing left. Then, clutching the pictures, I scramble to my feet and stagger out the room. Tears stream down my face.
I pace the flat. Then, needing air, I go out onto the patio. The cool evening air blows my hair back. Closing my eyes, I see Ma’s eyes but hear Granda’s voice telling me what to do to put everything in its place. I recall, as a child, sitting on his lap and digging in his front shirt pocket for the hard candies. I recall the feel of his strong arms hugging me. And I shudder.
Still gripping the pictures, I carry them to the main bedroom and place them carefully into my suitcase along with the rest of my things. Then I leave the key on the table, pick up my suitcase that I had brought in and slam the door behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I hear myself slurring my words as I order yet another pint of ale. Music blares and patrons crowd into the small, smoke-filled pub. Sitting on a stool at the bar, I grip my empty glass and wait for the refill while I stare at a mounted, mute television screen. The news is on. When the barman slides the pint in front of me, I turn away. I recognize the look all too well. This is the third day in a row that I’ve found my home here, returning at night to the dodgy place where I first stayed in Dublin.
My jaw is clenched, and my back hunched. I can’t get the pictures of Ma out of my head. It’s her eyes, the eyes I never noticed when they were in front of me, that haunt me now.
I keep checking my phone to see if Ryan has returned my call from this morning when, after two days, I finally dragged myself out of bed to search for a job. I want to report that I’m fine, even though I’m not. But he hasn’t called me back. Not yet.
I rotate my glass and watch the amber fluid swirl close to the rim.
Will I tell him the truth? Will I tell anyone the truth? Will the weight of the truth crush me like it did Ma?
An overfed man with thinning hair squeezes in between me and the person on the stool next to me. “Howya.” He bumps my arm as I lift the glass to my mouth. It spills all over my shirt.
“Shite.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand and grab for a napkin.
“Sorry, miss. Let me make it up to you.” He winks and motions for the barman to bring me another. “How’s it going?”
“Been better.”
“Aw, a fine thing here alone.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. The ripe smell of the docks and of tobacco permeate his overcoat.
“Hump off.”
“Why such the puss face?” He leans in closer. Whiskey rides his breath. When I turn away and focus my attention on
the mute television, he brushes his hand across my breast and says, “Lovely.”
I throw the rest of my ale in his face. “Keep your hands off me, you prick.”
He staggers back. “What the…?”
I glare at him, daring him to say or do anything. My body coils, ready to spring. People around us turn and stare. He scowls, cusses under his breath, and stomps off. I grip my empty glass and close my eyes.
The barman slides another pint in front of me and mutters, “On the house.” He pushes a bowl of nuts closer and then looks at the television screen. A reporter is interviewing an attractive woman in a smart business suit. I can’t hear the interview, but sprawled across the bottom of the screen are the words: Clara McShane sues Catholic Church. Ms. McShane is smiling and waving a document. In the background, people are cheering. The barman finishes wiping down the bar and slings the towel over his shoulder. He says, “I’ll be damned.”
By the end of the week I get a job answering phones for a software development company. I make just enough to afford a flat in the dodgy part of town. When Ryan and I finally connect, I tell him things are grand. He suggests coming for a visit, but I tell him I’m too busy with the new job and with getting settled. I tell him I haven’t yet heard about the DNA results.
There’s a lot I don’t tell him about: Da and Paddy. Grandma. Granda.
Each day I read or hear about the clerical sexual abuse scandal and Clara McShane, the attorney who exposed it.
Could I expose Granda, the most respected man in Louisburgh? Who would believe me and Ma? Would Ma even want me to tell anyone after she hid what happened and then buried it all these years?
What good would telling do?
I know the harm it would do. It would destroy Granda and Grandma, who love me and who have done so much for me…for the community…for the Church.
Yet they treated Ma worse than a dog. They destroyed her. They destroyed our family.
The anger boils inside me. I can’t sleep or eat. When I look in the mirror, I see dark circles beneath my eyes. Each time I see Granda’s number come up on my phone, I feel like screaming.
The truth imprisons me.
I toss my cell phone in the rubbish bin and buy a new phone with a new number. Then I call Clara McShane’s office. Just to see.
Two days later, I arrive at the four story professional building near Ballsbridge, take the elevator to the fourth floor, and push through two enormous mahogany doors with gold lettering: Clara McShane, Solicitor.
A perky receptionist greets me. When I introduce myself, she smiles. “Please have a seat. Ms. McShane is finishing a matter and will be out shortly. May I get you something to drink while you wait?”
I say, “No, thank you.” I sit in a zebra-striped chair, pick up a magazine from the glass table, and glance at the modern artwork on the walls.
Within ten minutes, a petite woman with big, highlighted hair appears and shakes my hand. Wearing a cream-colored suit and heels, she looks close to forty. “You must be Eliza. I’m Clara McShane. Very nice to meet you. Please come with me to my office. Did Nikki offer you something to drink?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say as I limp slightly on the way to her office. It’s the first day I’ve tried walking without the boot. I cringe.
“Bum leg?”
“I broke my ankle running. It’s getting better.”
When we reach her office, she motions toward a white couch in a sitting area. The office is immense. From the chair opposite the couch, Clara McShane smiles at me, arching painted-on eyebrows. “What can I do to help you?”
“I don’t really know where to begin.”
“Start at the beginning, love.”
As I spill everything, Clara doesn’t interrupt. At times she closes her eyes and shakes her head. She jots a few notes. When I finish, she says, “Your poor mother. You, too. This is a lot to deal with at your age. I commend you for doing what you have already.”
“Do you think you can help?”
“I need to look at everything, including the pictures, and check some things out with my colleagues. You say you found some hairs in a bag inside your baby book, and don’t know whose they are. Or, if they are your grandfather’s?”
I nod.
“Testing them, even if the root of the hair is there, may not help us, but I’ll check.” She jots a note. “What your mother has gone through is unconscionable. While it’s too late for criminal charges, we can purse civil damages. Money can’t change what happened, but it can help take care of your mother now.”
“I just got a job. It doesn’t pay much, but…”
“I charge a contingent fee based upon what he pays. You don’t pay me.”
I relax. “Oh.”
“Once you sign the agreement, I’ll be able to represent you. Then I’ll need your grandfather’s telephone number, along with the pictures and the hair sample. We’ll meet again after I’ve done the preliminary research.”
I write Granda’s number down and promise to bring everything else by tomorrow on my way to work.
“Lovely. Also, I want you present at the meeting that I’m going to arrange with him.”
I hadn’t thought about that. How could I face him?
Clara leans forward and grasps my hands. “You need to trust me. Do you?” She stares intently at me, jaw set, and I nod and try sitting taller.
After two long weeks, the meeting date arrives. I can only imagine how often Granda has tried to call me. Only Ryan, Clara McShane, and Dr. Kilkenny have my new number. My sweaty palms grip the water glass as I sit in Clara’s office waiting for the meeting to begin. She felt it best that I wait in her office until Granda and his solicitor are in the conference room.
I strain to hear whether Granda has arrived and keep glancing at the crystal clock on the corner of the credenza. Only ten more minutes to wait.
When I hear Granda’s voice drift down the hall, I focus on taking deep breaths. A sip of water cools my throat, but not the burning in my stomach.
I hear Clara directing Granda and his solicitor to the conference room. Then, her heels click down the hardwood floors, and she appears in the doorway. “Show time. Remember what we talked about. I’ll do the talking. Don’t say anything unless I tell you to, okay? I’ll go in first. You follow just a minute or so after me. Okay?” I nod and try swallowing to loosen the lump lodged in my throat. She touches my arm. “You will be fine.”
I square my shoulders and follow Clara in the wake of her perfume, the scent of musky roses. My ankle twinges in my new flats, but I walk with only a slight limp.
As Clara opens the conference room door, she says, “Thank you for waiting, gentlemen. My client has arrived.” She steps aside. I walk through the door. Sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Granda turns, and we stand face to face.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Granda stands before me, dressed in a starched white shirt and navy pinstriped suit, and bearing a Mediterranean tan from his holiday in Italy. I feel like my legs are going to buckle. His jaw drops. “Eliza! What are you doing here?”
Clara grabs my elbow and ushers me to the chair next to her at the rectangular conference table. A coffee carafe and Belleek china cups and saucers sit in the center on a silver tray with cream and sugar.
Granda takes a step forward, furrowing his thick brow. His voice booms. “What’s this about?”
Clara says in a firm tone, “Business.”
“What does Eliza have to do with business?” Granda’s eyes dart between me and Clara. They lack all the softness I knew as a child. “You said there was a proposition you had been asked to present on behalf of an important client.”
“This is my important client,” Clara says. She sits down and waits for Granda and his stout solicitor to do the same. Her eyes never leave his.
“Are you going to tell us what this is about, Miss McShane?” Granda’s grey-haired solicitor demands.
“Why yes, I will, Andrew.” Clara splays he
r manicured nails on top of a file. “Let me begin by stating that I do appreciate your coming in for this meeting, Mr. O’Donnell—or may I call you Edward?”
“You can call my client, Mr. O’Donnell.”
“Absolutely, Andrew. Mr. O’Donnell, my client has engaged me to present a business proposition for your consideration. We fully expect that you will consent to the terms, so let me lay them out for you.” She glares at the two men. “Sit down.” Granda and his solicitor exchange glances and sit.
Clara says, “First, my client would like you to sign over the titles to the cottages she manages for you, including the one she lives in, to her mother, Annie Conroy.”
“What? Are you crazy? Why would I do that? Have you gone mental, Eliza?” Granda narrows his eyes and snarls, “Where is this coming from? Who has put you up to this?”
My gut contracts, and I look down. Clara warned me not to speak.
“Second,” Clara continues, “My client would like you to sign over the title to the home in Naples, Italy, as well to Annie Conroy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! Why the hell would I do that?” yells Granda.
Clara holds Granda’s gaze. “My client fully recognizes that you may wish to continue to occupy the residence in Naples, and she’s agreeable to your paying rent to her mother based upon the prevailing rates, to be reviewed on the first of each calendar year. Should you decline the rate presented, you and your wife will have thirty days to vacate the home.”
“This meeting is over.” Granda’s solicitor stands and Granda starts to get up, too.
“I don’t think you want to leave until you hear all the terms,” Clara says.
They scowl and fold their arms over their chests. Granda shakes his head disdainfully. This time, I don’t look away. He runs his hand through thick red, grey-tinged hair and glances at his solicitor who nods slightly. Finally, they sit.
Rain and Revelation Page 15
